Wobble to the bathroom mirror,
slippers on formica tiles,
(older than they ever were)
stained a little, thin,
look on, and in, there for a hope of
stars or suns and galaxies
more light-years than pronounceable
and way beyond any dancing dust
but, no, I see a face;
misty in the silver, glass,
ancient as my father, yes,
fading now but, yes, with eyes
(retina and iris)
burning still, a facet.
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